It seldom snowed – Part IV

It seldom snowed they said,
perhaps they’re right
although seldom was never
in that endless summer
which tightened a fiery grip by day,
baking the plateau,
relentlessly melting its snow.
It began as a cliché
on a slow day
in a new January
of stupid heat
that penetrated the heart,
enslaving energies replete
with blinding lassitude,
defeating even the more able.
Over a beer shared in the Mess
we agreed to climb Mount Ruapehu.
The snowline had retreated enough
for a leisurely stroll
from the skiers upper car park
to Crater Lake,
we’d take a picnic lunch,
snap some great pictures,
be home for tea.
I had never climbed the volcano before
but it sounded okay to me,
representing no more
than a brisk morning’s walk.
I had heard the talk
of its moods,
how out of the placid blue
a shift in weather
could strand climbers,
I had seen the same phenomenon
from a safe distance
and I believed it true
but things had been stable for weeks.
When I reached the peak
clad only in running shorts,
a T shirt and combat boots
I was in awe of the view,
it was worth every risk –
not that there were any,
and to stand in brisk air
on top of this part of New Zealand,
on the pinnacle,
with two properly dressed
climbers roped together,
ice-axed and slack-jawed
gazing at me bewildered,
was an inspiration.
We exchanged greetings
and I left on my bum,
there was no other way down.
When my friends joined me
at the rim of Crater Lake
and we had shared
snow-chilled Liebfraumilch,
chicken and fresh, crusty rolls,
they asked if
my skinned buttocks hurt.
Not when sitting in snow
on top of Ruapehu
with my friends
I said, but tonight,
it might be a different matter.
© I.D. Carswell